


Waning

by callowyn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Doppelganger, Gen, Grumpy Old Men, Implied/Referenced Incest, Mystery Shack, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callowyn/pseuds/callowyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to mistake things, wandering the Shack at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waning

**Author's Note:**

> Originally on tumblr [here.](http://callowyn.tumblr.com/post/126716897695)

Stanford Pines knows the difference between a true abnormality and a kitschy sham. That doesn’t mean he likes walking through the Mystery Shack at night, feeling the weight of all those plastic taxidermied eyes on his back as he creeps across creaking floorboards. What was Stanley thinking, anyway, turning his house into some kind of tourist trap while something as dangerous as the portal was hidden right beneath their feet? A portal that, despite every warning in the journals and in flagrant violation of common sense, Stan had _intentionally turned back on_?

Ridiculous. His brother is ridiculous. Ford squares his shoulders, twinging a muscle in the process, and continues down the hallway to his old room.

It looks like someone tried to wallpaper over the entrance at one point, but the door itself swings open at Ford’s touch. A haze of dust and cobwebs clouds the moonlight coming in through the multi-hued window. Funny how different his own belongings look now, aged and greying just like him. He’d really thought those trophies were worth keeping, hadn’t he? And the filing cabinet full of notes, fat lot of good those did him—though he’s thankful to see that these, at least, Stan was wise enough to leave untouched. He wonders what happened to the carpet. Ford steps inside, eases the door closed behind him, and sneezes.

Something pale and human-sized looms from the shadows.

“Gyah!” Ford yells, lashing out with instinct and the knife that lives in his coat sleeve—he’s learned the hard way that a blade will still work when all his fancy inventions fail him. The knife connects with something soft, digging in deep, and there’s a quiet splash of droplets across his hand.

Ford lets go of the knife-hilt. Silent, the figure crashes to the floor, its fez-topped head completely separated from its body. Despite the gloom, Ford’s stomach lurches with recognition. He knows that face.

“Stanley? Stanley!” Ford scrubs frantically at the thick drops on his hand, reaching for his brother’s severed head. Stan’s skin already feels waxen and lifeless, oh God, Ford, what have you done—

Wait. Ford prods a little harder, fingers sliding across the sticky surface of Stan’s cheek in a way human skin does not work, at least in this dimension. This Stanley _is_ wax, slightly melted from the summer’s heat, mouth fixed in a permanent grin. Two wax eyes glint at him in the dark.

Laughter echoes in the back of his mind.

 _You really thought he was real, didn’t you? Hah!_ Ford covers his ears to block the voice, but it keeps taunting him; it always does. _You genuinely believed, after thirty years, that Stan would be waiting for you right here where you left him. After everything you did!_ The pupils of Stan’s empty eyes seem to elongate, and Ford hurriedly closes his own, stumbling backwards in a protective crouch. _You are just so easy for your brother, Stanford. Like he still cares. You abandoned him, remember? You pushed him away. He doesn’t want you back. But put a little Stan-shaped puppet in front of you, and all that precious logic goes right out the window…_

“The hell are you screaming about?”

Ford jumps to his feet. Another Stanley has appeared in the doorway—or is it another him? No, this Stan lacks the criss-cross of scars that would show if Ford’s arms were bare like that, idly scratching at a belly gone soft with plenty of food. Ford lunges and knocks him back into the hallway, pinning both his brother’s wrists in a six-fingered grip while he fumbles for a flashlight. Stanley sputters and curses underneath him, but his pupils dilate the way they’re supposed to, round and wide.

“I’m not here to harvest your eyes, you idiot,” says Stan, as Ford stows the flashlight back into his coat. “Though I’m gonna need some new ones soon because you _blinded_ me. Ow.”

Ford runs a hand down his brother’s face, businesslike. “I had to make sure it was you.” Stan’s skin is authentically scruffy, albeit thinner and more wrinkled than he remembers. The worry lines across his forehead have seen a lot more action than the smile-curves bracketing his mouth. Ford leans in for closer inspection.

“Easy, tiger,” says Stan gruffly. “There are kids in this house.”

Ford startles and climbs off him before he really registers what Stan meant. His cheeks redden when the implication hits: it’s been a long time since he had to worry about social propriety. Tentatively he extends a hand to help his brother up.

“Augh, my back,” Stan grouches, but he lets Ford pull him to his feet. “What was that about, huh? You bitter about my old wrestling skills on top of everything else?”

“I’m not bitter,” says Ford. Stan’s disbelieving snort has only gotten more impressive with age. Embarrassed, Ford bulldozes the emotion under a fresh wave of indignation, waving behind them toward the headless figurine still lying on the empty floor. “Would you care to explain why you keep a wax replica of yourself in the corner of _my_ old room?”

Stan swears when he sees the damage and rushes to his fallen double, glaring at Ford as he picks up his own head. “What did you do to him?”

“Him? _It_ , Stanley, _it_.” Ford doesn’t draw another weapon when his brother manages to fit the wax Stan back together, but it’s a close thing.

“Mabel made him for me.” Stan handles his false twin with a gentleness that’s completely missing from his voice. “Fixed him up after the heat wave, too. She’s going to be so upset when she finds out you broke him.”

An image of Mabel’s distraught young face flashes in Ford’s mind, and he rubs his elbow guiltily. Mabel’s involvement does explain some things: the thing’s eyes didn’t sparkle with malice, just glitter. “I was startled.”

“What are you saying, Stanford, that it was an _accident_?”

Ford meets his brother’s eyes. Stan can’t turn him out over one stupid mistake—first of all, this is _his house_ —but part of him thinks he’d deserve it, for staying silent back then, for letting his anger keep them apart while Stan had nowhere to call home. He’s practiced apologizing so many times, but no words come.

“Whatever,” Stan grunts. “Have fun killing wax me. Kill me a hundred times, what do I care? I’m going back to bed.”

“Stanley, wait.”

Stan turns around, and Ford stutters again. _I already have killed you,_ he wants to say, _except it was more like a thousand times. I spent two weeks in a dimension that was nothing but mirrors. Everything I meet knows my weak spot is you but you’re never real and any minute now I’m going to wake up._

_Trust no one._

“Tell Mabel I’m sorry?” he finally offers, gesturing at the broken Stan.

Stanley sniffs. “I figure you can tell her yourself,” he says. “Nerd.” And away he goes, back up the stairs, to sleep that will surely be calmer than Ford’s.


End file.
